


Not Truly An Apology

by luckyghost



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1920s, Boarding School, Character(s) of Color, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:55:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3287666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckyghost/pseuds/luckyghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You want to help me write an apology for being a homosexual? It's rather personal, isn't it?"</p><p>Bennett is in trouble again. Good thing William is around to do damage control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Truly An Apology

**Author's Note:**

> These characters are part of a much larger story that is in the process of becoming a novel. I've done a fair amount of research but I'm neither British nor a historian, so if you catch any errors/inconsistencies with the language and setting please point them out!

"You want to help me write an apology for being a homosexual? It's rather personal, isn't it?"

Bennett is not in the worst of trouble one could be in on the second day back from summer hols, but he certainly isn't in his English master's good graces. 

"You're not apologizing for that, you're apologizing for the essay," reminds William, who is perched on a windowsill overlooking the courtyard. His dark hair is lit from behind, and glows golden around the edges. It looks soft and fluffy, and Bennett restrains himself from touching it with some effort.

"I suppose I could use an outside eye, at least to avoid getting expelled."

"There's a good lad," William says, and smiles.

Taking Bennett's extended hand, William hops off the windowsill, follows Bennett to his rickety dormitory desk and pulls up a chair.

"Start off with 'Dear Mr. Bolton,'" William instructs him, leaning over the desk.

"Yes, I'd gotten that far, thank you. Next I'm considering, 'I apologize for subjecting your weak stomach to my filthy degenerate ways.' What do you think?"

"Promising, but not without weakness." Black curls flop over William's forehead as he leans farther forward. "Perhaps something a bit more grave."

"Dear Mr Bolton, please don't expel me; I'm going to be the Indian Oscar Wilde." 

"Touchy subject. Avoid comparing yourself to figures who were incarcerated."

"'Dear Mr Bolton, I apologize for including subject matter you found offensive in my essay. I recognize now that personal subject matter, though unconsummated, does not belong in academic writing, and I regret my actions.'" Bennett chews his pen for a moment before writing the statement down. "What do you think? Apologetic while still putting the moral dilemma on him?"

"Perfectly manipulative and not truly an apology.” William leans back in his chair and kicks his legs up to rest his meticulously shined shoes on the desk. “I approve."

 

It's the fall of 1922. Oscar Wilde has been dead for some time, but Bennett Ward is very alive at the age of seventeen, serving his seven years hard labor in the English public school system. 

"It's absurd," Bennett informs William through a mouthful of porridge mush over the din of the refectory. "I'm expected to use this farce of an education to become a writer when all I'm learning to write is equivocation."

"That's where you're wrong," says William, waiting until his mouth is no longer full of food. "You're expected to learn nothing at all but how to be a mild mannered imperialist."

"Well then, I might as well stay home with my aunt and uncle. At least the food would be better."

William raises his glass to that statement, a hint of a smirk playing on his face. Bennett can sense that William finds his rants entertaining, and while that annoys him, he can't hold it against his best friend.

“I’ve turned my apology in,” Bennett announces, rolling his eyes. “I expect to get away with a caning.” He attempts a nonchalant affect, but his teeth clench at the idea. 

“I support you fully in whatever you wish to do, but I have to admit—I don’t understand what you expected by turning in that piece in the first place,” William remarks, and Bennett leans back in his chair with a sigh. 

“I made a perhaps foolish decision to write with integrity. I felt it would be good practice for when I eventually submit my writing to potential publishers.” 

“You overestimate the quality of thinking valued in this school."

“I do nothing of the sort,” snorts Bennett. “If we don’t push them, how is anything going to change?” William shrugs lightly in response. This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. Once, when they were thirteen, Bennett had received a caning for going off on their history master for making a rather derogatory comment about India. Bennett had proceeded to inform the entire class that he was both British and Indian nobility and therefore outranked everyone at the school, and William had dragged him out of the room by the wrist before he could get into any more trouble.

“Come on, then,” William says after a moment. “I can’t hear my own thoughts in here. Let’s go for a walk."

Bennett follows William out the propped-open refectory doors and down the stone hallway until they reach the courtyard. The sun casts a glowing light on the grass and through the leaves. The first and second formers are playing cricket, stray balls and missed swings one after another. William leads Bennett down towards the creek and the lightest brush of their hands makes Bennett’s chest clench. The gentle flow of the creek soothes his nerves, and they walk in comfortable silence for a while. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Bennett says eventually. “If I was expelled now, my aunt and uncle would simply put me into another school. But when I turn eighteen in February, I’ll be a lord and they won’t be able to do anything."

“Yes, we all know you’re going to be a lord,” William says with a dramatic sigh, but Bennett frowns.

“I’m serious,” he protests. “I want to be intellectually stimulated, and I think I could do it better on my own than in this school.”

“Don’t I intellectually stimulate you?” quips William and Bennett blushes, stumbling on his words for a moment.

“Yes, yes, I mean, of course you do. I’d just like to have more time to focus on my own work rather than being distracted by the meaningless tasks I have to perform here. You could leave too! Come stay on my estate, it’ll be brilliant."

“You know I can’t. I don’t have a fortune to live on for the rest of my life. I need a career, and for that I need an education.” 

“You’re so practical,” Bennett says with a sigh and flops onto the grass, feet dangling above the water of the creek. William sighs as well, joining Bennett on the ground.

“Look, I find your plan admirable. But you’re on your last year. Can’t you wait just a bit longer?” William asks, and knocks his foot against Bennett’s. Bennett is silent for a moment, and then his ears flush a dark red.

“I wrote something for you.” 

“Will I need to demand an apology after reading it?” William teases.

“It’s possible, but I hope not… Just read it.” He shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out a tightly folded piece of paper, and passes it to William. As William reads it, Bennett tears at the grass and throws the poor, mangled blades into the creek. His ears, if it were even possible, flush deeper. 

“Bennett,” William says after a silence that lasts far too long. “I don’t know what to say."

“If you don’t want it, just throw it in the creek, I won’t be offended—” Bennett rushes the words out as if the awkwardness of the situation could be resolved by speaking as quickly as possible.

“No, not at all,” William insists with just as much force. “No one’s ever written me a poem before—"

“Don’t worry, that was terrifying, I never will again, shaved five years off my life—” Bennett grabs his books and rushes to stand, but William catches him around the wrist.

“No, it was lovely. Thank you.” William catches Bennett’s eyes with purpose, and when Bennett doesn’t move from his half-crouched position he gives his arm a tug, pulling Bennett off his feet to land on the edge of the creek, one foot splashing into the water and immediately soaking his uniform trouser leg. Bennett sputters, and William bursts into laughter.

“You brute!” Bennett protests, reaching out to drag William into the creek, but William rolls away, cackling.

“I swear that was an accident, and not a commentary on your poetry,” says William, face twitching with repressed laughter.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Bennett grumbles, climbing out of the creek and shaking the water out of his shoe, making sure to spray the excess all over William’s face. William yelps and lunges towards Bennett, knocking him back into the grass.

“WARD! GOLDMAN! No inappropriate conduct, unless you want a caning!” 

William jumps back with a start at the sound of a prefects voice from behind them and rushes to stand, but Bennett takes his time gathering his books. 

“I remember you saying the opposite last night while you slept, Galloway!” Bennett calls over his shoulder. The prefect bellows Bennett’s name even louder, but William has grabbed Bennett’s arm and tugs him as they run away down the creek, caught in fits of laughter.


End file.
